


Moon and Beauty

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Plug and Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wing shows Drift the moon. LOL, wow that sounds cheezy.  Schmoopy pnp fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon and Beauty

 

"The love of the beauty of the world...involves...the love of all the truly precious things that bad fortune can destroy. The truly precious things are those forming ladders reaching toward the beauty of the world, opening into it."

Simone Weil

 

 

 

“Sometimes,” Wing said, his voice hushed in the velvety darkness, the plush sand under their feet, “I come up here just to see the moon.”  He tilted his head up, gold optics wide and reverent at the silver-white disc of the planet’s moon, hanging above them. His entire posture was  taut, as if at any moment he might launch himself upward, spring into the sky, and try to join the moon. 

“It’s a moon,” Drift said, his own feet awkward in the sand.  It was his first time on the planet’s surface since…then, and everything felt too new. It was disorienting, somehow, to have an open sky above him. That had been the one thing he hadn’t minded about the underground city:  a mech who’d spent his life in gutters, on warships, got used to having a ceiling. To him, an open sky meant an assault, and he could feel, even in the soft air of night, the old tension thrumming through his circuits, his hand feeling the lack of a pistol like an ache.

“Yes,” Wing said, his voice still reverent.

“It’s a chunk of rock floating in an orbit around a planet.” He tried again. This was stupid. He’d thought coming up here he’d see something: Wing had wrapped it in anticipation and mystery. For…a moon.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s reflected light.”  That was all he’d needed to know about moons—that and how that reflected light could affect a night attack. "Distorted by atmosphere."

“Is that all you see?”

“What else is there?”

Wing turned his face from the moon, the light glossing his face in long kisses of silver.  “Beauty. Radiance.”  He frowned, as though hearing the inadequacy of his own explanation. “I can show you?”  He stretched out a hand, holding moonglow cupped in an open palm, offering…something.

“Show me what?”  Drift frowned, his sourness devolving into blank incomprehension.

“Beauty,” Win said, stepping closer, and part of Drift’s mind, small and timid and wild, wanted to protest that beauty was right here: Wing, silver-lit and shining. But beauty meant nothing. It was useless, meaningless, something to be destroyed fragile and easily—too easily—ended.

Maybe that was why it was beautiful.  
  
He pushed the thought aside. He should be thinking of escape, of leaving. If he had to think of the moon he should think of ways to reach it. Beyond the moon was his war and he needed to be there. “You showed me.” He pointed, lamely, upward.

“As I see it, I meant.” A hand, warm against the night cooled armor of Drift’s chassis. “Will you let me?”

Drift looked at the hand, the fingers curled around his white armor, puzzled. “Let you what?”

Wing frowned. Even the frown was somehow beautiful, a symmetrical arch on the full, curved lip plates. “You don’t know?” He seemed surprised.

“Know what?” He was beginning to feel a stir of frustration.

“Hardline interfacing?” Wing took the hand back, the coolness of the night air seeming to rush into the spot he’d touched.  Drift watched the black hand move over Wing’s white armor, the jet releasing a small hatch, tugging out a cable. Drift stared at it, curious.  “You’ve never…?” Wing asked.

He shook his head. “Don’t even have that.”

“You do,” Wing said. He tilted his head, a quizzical smile flirting over his mouth. “I did watch your repairs.”  He reached back to where he’d touched Drift before, fingers gentle and deft.

“Wing. I’d know if I had—“ He stopped, hearing a click, a white panel retracting. 

“May I?” Wing repeated, pulling the cable from Drift’s chassis. Drift could feel something unspool, under a tensioner.  Drift nodded, head tilted, vaguely disturbed by the cable. How could you go all your life and not know you had some hardware?  Unless…unless they’d installed it while they repaired him.

That…wasn’t much of a comforting thought.

“Perhaps it’s best if you lie down? The first time can be…overwhelming.”

Right. This just got better and better. Drift rolled his optics, dropping to the soft sand, Wing following, one knee’s red blade slicing into the ground. Wing leaned forward, planting a kiss on Drift’s mouth, chaste and sweet, before rolling backward, taking the cables in his hands, both of them, and pressing them together, a smile flickering over his face like a cloud teasing the moon.

It felt…weird at first—a sense of anatomy he’d never known, a vague sensation of something being fitted into something else. And then, a slow, effervescent rush along the line, like static, at first, needling and tingling. He could feel it fizzing down the cable, pouring into his sensornet, and racing over him like flames. He tensed, and the sensation seemed to slow, dammed up, blocked.

“Relax,” Wing said, settling down beside him, stroking a soothing palm over his chassis, fingertips toying with the Decepticon insignia, carefully recreated by the repair techs. 

“I am relaxed,” Drift said. Lying, and he knew it. It was a reflex, a defense.

“You’ve thrown up a firewall,” Wing said.  “There’s no need. You know I mean you no harm.” 

Drift grunted, mouth tightening. He had no idea what he’d even done.  He hated not knowing.

“Just relax,” Wing repeated.  “I want to show you.” 

Drift cycled a tense vent of air. Right. Relax. Like you could do that as ordered, when you felt this strange foreignness inside you, against you.

He turned his face to Wing’s, tugging at the shoulder nacelle, pulling him in to a kiss, one soft and searching. He could feel the tension inside him melt, erode, slip away into nothingness and the fizzing, fuzzing sensation sluiced through him, awash with color and light and sound and sensation.

Wing’s, he realized. Wing’s data: his memories, his history and his way of seeing the world, offered in gigabytes of data, swirling and crashing through Drift’s cortical relays.  

It was almost overwhelming, and he found himself clutching to the jet’s body, pulling Wing down onto him, his hands hard and needy over the flightpanels folded demurely down Wing’s back.  Wing pulled away from the kiss, not far, but enough that Drift could see the silver disc of the moon against the night-blue sky, a dull cold coin against the deepness of space and atmosphere, and Wing’s own optics, gold and warm, as Wing stroked the backs of two fingers over Drift’s cheek, the line where his helm covered his face.  
  
He wanted to touch, as though he could not get enough by merely looking, as though touch made Wing more real, more his, somehow, an ownership he knew was only, frustratingly, temporary.

And this time, Drift could see a sort of glow—not real, not a particle diffusion or atmospheric dispersal or any other trick of light—but a sort of indefinable halo, around the moon, around Wing, transcendent and pure, fragile and ephemeral and yet eternal. This would pass: this moon would set, and Wing would move, and history would move in its slow paces away from this inconsequential moment, but this would remain: the memory, a vividness than punctured through Drift’s long history of violence and war, a bright, beautiful glow deep in his memory of this moment, once, rare and fleeting and all the more precious because of it, that he could see a world better than he could ever have dreamed.

“Oh…,” Wing breathed atop him, his own hands clinging to Drift’s frame, and Drift realized that the connection went both ways, and Wing was shivering against him, humbled, seeing himself through Drift’s gaze.    
  
And this was it, Drift thought, as he shivered in an ecstasy deeper and higher than a mere physical release, what Wing was talking about: the fullness of ownership in one moment, the poignant ache that it would pass, become merely memory, the ravishment of the beautiful, the desire to possess and be possessed by it, to will time to stop, the world to stop, the war to recede and the heavens to break above them.

**Author's Note:**

> Revisiting the old concept I'd poked at with Sky and Ground: that several forms of interfacing coexist, so that in this, Drift and Wing have had 'sticky' sex before, but this is a newer, different level of intimacy.


End file.
